Poetry Month
-1 poem from 1 book in 1 week-
I. Seventh Heaven
aus dem gleichnamigen Gedichtband Seventh Heaven, herausgegeben von Telegraph Books, 1972.
Coverfoto von Judy Linn.
Seventh Heaven
by Patti Smith
Oh Raphael. Guardian angel. In love and crime
all things move in sevens. seven compartments
in the heart. the seven elaborate temptations.
seven devils cast from Mary Magdalene whore
of Christ. the seven marvelous voyages of Sinbad.
sin/bad. And the number seven branded forever
on the forehead of Cain. The first inspired man.
The father of desire and murder. But his was not
the first ecstasy. Consider his mother.
Eve’s was the crime of curiosity. As the saying
goes: it killed the pussy. One bad apple spoiled
the whole shot. But be sure it was no apple.
An apple looks like an ass. It’s fags‘ fruit.
It must have been a tomato.
Or better yet. A mango.
She bit. Must we blame her. abuse her.
poor sweet bitch. perhaps there’s more to the story.
think of Satan as some stud.
maybe her knees were open.
satan snakes between them.
they open wider
snakes up her thighs
rubs against her for a while
more than the tree of knowledge was about
to be eaten…she shudders her first shudder
pleasure pleasure garden
was she sorry
are we ever girls
was she a good lay
god only knows
II. Picasso Laughing
aus dem Gedichtband Witt, herausgegeben von Gotham Book Mart, 1973.
Coverfoto von Robert Mapplethorpe
Picasso Laughing
by Patti Smith
notebook
divine love is so.
invisible.
notebook
november 1. all souls day. rimbaud-o. go
to hell. picasso knows. how he really fucking
knew knows. where can he go now.
notebook
picasso hoax: don’t nobody tell when he dies.
continue let time continue and move like myth.
till suddenly somebody rings a bell. says over
a dinner party why he he is over a century.
or more perfect two centuries.
diary. sunday. april 8, 1973.
picasso dies
april is the cruelest month etc. what remains?
brian jones bones. jim morrison’s friend.
jimi hendrix bandana. sweatband angel.
the starched collar of baudelaire.
the sculptured cap of voltaire.
the crusader’s helmet like a temple itself
carole lombard’s handmirror.
brancusi bird brain.
the prodigal kiss.
judies garland. rimbaud’s valise.
rothko’s overcoat. surreal space.
the black knit dress of piaf.
photographs. picasso laughing. picasso dancing.
picasso do the fishback. picasso do the cadillac.
a heartbreak a brushstroke. the light streaming
the window of the villa. sun rising and setting
and sleeping on clean white sheets all folded
and picasso’s boatneck shirt.
III. The Sheep Lady From Algiers
aus dem Werk Babel – eine Sammlung von Gedichten, Prosa, Liedtexten und Zeichnungen, herausgegeben von G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1978.
Coverfoto von Lynn Goldsmith.
The Sheep Lady From Algiers
by Patti Smith
nodding tho‘ the lamps lit low
nodding for passers underground
to and fro she’s darning and
the yarn is weeping red and pale
marking the train stops from algiers
sleeping tho‘ the eyes are pale
hums in rhythum w/a bonnet on
lullaby a broken song
the sifting-cloth is bleeding red
weeping yarn from algiers
lullaby tho‘ baby’s gone
the cradle rocks a barren song
she’s rocking w/her ribbons on
she’s rocking yarn and needles oh
it’s long coming from algiers
IV. Y (for Robert Mapplethorpe)
aus dem Buch Early Work – eine Gedichtsammlung (1970–1979), herausgegeben von Norton & Company, 1994.
Coverfoto von Robert Mapplethorpe.
Y
by Patti Smith
Y is the covenant
between the artist
and the creator
Y is Yaweh
the name/the hands
that rearrange
Y is the palm
the rod the river
a system of law
that shall not
be mastered
Y is the trinity
the body
the shaft
the shadow cast
Y is the way of youth
the piss of sentinels
the forgotten vowel
Y is still life
the last shot
before death
a floating gardenia
a storm under glass
a motion of tulips
the hybrid the source
Y is the exhausted
inexhaustible force
V. Worthy The Lamb Slain For Us
aus der Gedichtsammlung Auguries of Innocence, herausgegeben von Ecco Press, 2005.
Coverfoto von Patti Smith
Worthy the Lamb Slain for Us
by Patti Smith
On the edge of a pasture in a confusion of stones,
obscured by the long grass and floramour,
the footprint of horror cloven and drawn.
She had a beautiful name: freedom.
Pretty little chop. Unmarketable, light
the bleating of new life.
He loved her mouth, tiny feet dressed in pleats.
Hearing her cry, he picked her up by the stem
of her throat in his thick arms slick with dew.
And he, a governed soul, broad shouldered
with eyes like Blake, lamented who bred thee, nursed
thee on mead and flowers, as he ripped her apart.
The barn was burning an indifferent hell,
engulfing little maids in their curly coats.
The field and fell lay empty as the heart.
He called to his god gasping for breath
we abandoned the farms we culled,
cut the cord, incinerated our little ones.
We did it for love we did it for man,
the hawthorn and the cuckoo,
the footpaths of Cumbria.
We did it for a beautiful name.
freedom, baa baa baa,
nothing you could put your finger on.